Serendipity
by sweetbellic
Summary: "So, I was thinking, instead of never letting you live down that stupid letter - which I would totally do on a normal day - I could be your wingman. If, of course, you put in a good word for me, as well." - Prom's around the corner, and Peter and Tris become mutual matchmakers. High School AU. Eventual Petris. Flamers welcome.


_**ser·en·dip·i·ty (****serənˈdipədē) -** the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for_

* * *

"No, Christina. This is a terrible idea." Beatrice says, glaring down at the loose leaf of paper clenched between her thumb and index finger. The dismissal bell had just rung, and the two friends were the last students to leave their French classroom. Their teacher, Mrs. Dupree, was still toiling about at her desk, in preparation for the extra help kids that would swing by.

"Well, if you really feel that way, just forget about it and throw it out. Personally, I think you're better off asking him face to face - or, better yet, waiting for him to do it." She advises. Beatrice mulls this over for a while, pacing slowly towards the overflowing trash can. _What if he never asks, though? _She thinks. _And what if I never get the chance to ask him?_

As much as she may have hated to admit it, Christina was right, being much more well-versed in the realm of the opposite gender than herself. Dismissing her advice was a mistake. Girls hardly ever ask guys to prom, and if they do, they're usually seen as desperate for whatever reason, a double-standard as it was. Still, Beatrice would hate to be seen as desperate.

And, out of the girls that _did_ ask their crushes to prom, it was more than likely that none of them asked in a love letter. That wasn't necessarily a good thing.

With that thought in mind, she wasn't going to waste her time writing out a final draft for this. It was, as she had said to Christina, a terrible idea.

So she places both thumbs and index fingers at the middle of the paper and pulls them away from each other, so that it rips clean through the center. She tosses it carelessly in the trash can as she leaves, but it instead sits at the top of the pile in plain sight, where it will stay.

Until the oscillating fan at the front of the room blows it off, and Peter steps inside a few minutes later, a sullen, I-really-don't-want-to-be-here-right-now-but-I-have-to-because-I-don't-want-to-take-this-bullshit-class-again-next-year look on his face.

That face is changed into a puzzled one as he notices the parts of the paper on the floor, stepping on them to prevent the fan from blowing them away again. After retrieving them and piecing them back together, he sees "To Tobias" written along the front fold.

"Oh, Peter! You're here!" Mrs. Dupree exclaims, looking up from her desk with a bright smile, obviously relieved she has company and did not cancel her plans with her husband in vain. Most of the failing students who had vowed they would attend at least one extra help did not show up, and, as much as Peter wanted to follow suit, his mother had threatened to drive him right back to school if he went home during extra help day. She knew exactly when it was being held, thanks to Parent/Teacher Conference night, so Peter was pretty much cornered until he got his shit together.

He jams the parts of the letter in his back pocket and smiles a horrendously fake smile at his teacher, hoping it'll help get him on her good side, so this will be a bit more painless.

However, it would most certainly help if he could actually focus on her, and not the letter. He's tempted to pull it out and read it right in front of her, but that definitely wouldn't keep him on her good side, and it would only make his time here longer. Still, he can't help zoning out sometimes. Who wouldn't? Even with only one student in the room, she fails to keep his attention. Granted, he _is _thinking of something else, but even the kids who do well and are not often distracted, have a tendency to fall asleep during her class.

He ends up with a handout on his desk, asking him to read the passage in French, and answer the questions in English. He's left to do nothing but stare at it, since all the words are _literally_ in a different language, and context clues don't really come easy to him for whatever reason. It's a wonder he passed last year, and he's still passing - but not by a lot.

Thankfully, Mrs. Dupree eventually sees her fault, beginning to speak loudly and maintain eye contact to keep him focused as she helps him out. After about a good fifteen minutes, he's got the jist of it, and is finally able to refocus and allow the passage to keep his mind occupied.

An hour later, for the first time in the history of ever, he walks out of French class feeling somewhat accomplished, after having learned a few key words he always got stuck on in the past, and doing better than he'd expected on an old practice quiz Mrs. Dupree found in her file cabinet. As he walks through the deserted halls out to the parking lot, he deems it fitting to reward himself by reading the letter, so he does just that.

If this letter were found by anyone else, they most likely would've jammed it deeper in the trash can, so it wouldn't fall out again, or at least read it, and then throw it out. But Peter wasn't anyone else.

Certain words like 'love', 'feelings', and 'beautiful' pop out at him as he skims through the messy first draft that it was, abounded with strikethrough or unfinished sentences. However, none of them catch his attention like the eight words at the very bottom, just above the signature.

_So, will you go to prom with me?_

Just under that, is a name written in loopy, unmistakably feminine cursive - Beatrice Prior, with corny hearts on the i's.

And he nearly falls over from laughing.

There's a custodian in the distance who looks up at him, obviously startled by the sudden outburst in the quiet hallway, but then continues to sweep with a slight shake of his head, probably thinking that he doesn't get paid enough for this.

Not even Peter himself knew what he found so funny. Perhaps it was because Tobias showed practically no attraction towards either sex, or the idea of sending someone a letter instead of just being upfront and _saying _it was just so preposterous that it was laughable. At least it ended up in the garbage, for whatever reason, and not his locker.

Unless Tobias already said no. That just made him laugh even harder. First draft or not, it was hilarious, and the cheesiest attempt at asking someone to prom yet. If Beatrice actually goes through with making a final draft, then, God help her.

With one last snicker, he shoves the letter into his jean pocket as he reaches the parking lot, then stops in his tracks, catching sight of the brown-haired goddess sauntering down the tarmac aisles in search of her car.

Her straight hair seemed to bounce with each self-assured step she took, one foot delicately placed before the other. Her skin-tight, waist-high jeans hug her every curve, and her Nirvana graphic tee - God, it looked so big on her, but it was perfect, because it allowed Peter to imagine her all curled up in his shirts.

The confidence in her gait and the brilliance of her crimson-lipped smile was so prominent, he could swear he could taste it. Striking ice blue eyes peered out at the asphalt before her from beneath her smoky black eyelids, and the added contrast of her deep, auburn hair made them pop. Her long, alabaster arms swung gracefully at her sides, and her pure, unblemished skin beamed in the sunlight. She honestly could've been her _own_ light source, or the Sun's superior understudy. No, scratch that. The Sun could be _her_ understudy.

Peter didn't really have beef with Uriah before, but once he saw Marlene reach out and hug him as she stopped by his Range Rover, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to hurl himself at him and start pounding his fists into his eye sockets. If Marlene wasn't there, he probably would've. No, he wouldn't. Uriah would probably tell her about it, and beating up a girl's close friend is definitely no way to get her to go with you to prom.

But, no, Peter _so_ wasn't obsessed or a hypocrite at all. All he wants is to get to know the chick better, so he can ask her to prom and not feel like a total stranger. Then he realizes - that's what Beatrice wants, too. She mentioned it in the very first sentence of the letter.

_See, I'm not sure if this is a good idea, because I don't really know you as well as I'd like to, but I really want to._

That's when she trails off on an incessant tangent, bereft of commas and strikethrough-free sentences until the fourteenth line of the page.

And as Peter receives only a mere finger-wave from Marlene when he decides to go out on a limb and pull a pretty badass looking sup-nod, he reluctantly resides himself to thinking that him and Beatrice are in the exact same boat.

* * *

"Okay, so, what's your next plan?" Christina inquires the next morning, leaning against the locker just beside Beatrice's.

Beatrice sighs, fishing through her locker for her pre-calculus binder. "I don't know. I guess I'll go with what you told me."

"You're gonna wait for him to ask you?"

"Yeah. Unless you think I should do something else?" Beatrice says, albeit halfheartedly. She's impatient - she doesn't want to wait. She wants to act. But she doesn't want to look desperate. Especially when it comes to Tobias, one of the most brutally honest, unfiltered people she'll ever meet. Because of that, she's paranoid that he won't let her down gently, should he decline her offer.

"I think you should get to know him better, if you want him to ask you. Maybe you can bring it up in conversation and see what he thinks about it?"

Beatrice lifts a shoulder in consideration. "Sounds like a good idea."

Christina grins impishly. "I always think of the best ideas." She says, a bit too self-assuredly.

"Oh, shut up." Beatrice chides playfully, slamming her locker shut and waving her friend off.

Beatrice is just about to turn to merge with the traffic jam in the hallway, when she bumps into a taller man, her forehead making contact with his chin. She mutters a soft apology, and attempts to manuever around him, but his hand stops her as it closes around her wrist.

She turns her head to face the man, and nearly snatches her wrist right out of his grip. His facial features are soft, where Tobias' are sharp and angular, like a razor's edge, something that could cut you if you aren't careful. But despite the innocent, cherub-like facade this man's face takes on, there's no mistaking the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Peter Hayes. The conniving bastard who'd spilled fruit punch on her fifth grade graduation dress just because it was white and he knew it'd be a pain in the ass to remove, pushed her off a moving swing because he wanted a turn, and told everyone in the third grade that she still peed the bed, which she did not. Naturally, that had earned her some teasing, but only by a few no-life kids who thought they were funny, and kissed Peter's ass.

Thankfully, he's seemed to have 'tamed' over the years, devolving from a full-on bully to a mild annoyance. He wouldn't target her as much as he used to - probably because Beatrice was thicker-skinned than she had let on, so he eventually gave up. But there'd occasionally be a time where she'd tell Christina, Marlene, or Susan that she was having an issue, and he'd be in the vicinity, saying it was probably because she was peeing the bed again.

Still, despite their lack of recent encounters, and him not teasing her as much, Beatrice still found his presence just about as rewarding as a mosquito buzzing in her ear.

"What do you want?" She mumbles, her eyes darting back and forth in a feeble search for a way past him. Needless to say, it was of no use - his broad form seemed to cage her in, pinning her to her locker.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but," He began, his ever-so-condescending tone taunting at Beatrice's patience, "I understand you were trying to get this message across to a friend of mine." He held up one torn piece of the letter, flapping it back and forth for no other reason than to get her even angrier.

She had meant to say what's it to you, but the only sound that escaped her was a shocked gasp. She glanced up at the letter in horror, her mouth suddenly lacking moisture, and her cheeks suddenly warm. Peter's lips quirked up, no doubt amused by her reaction.

"W-why do you have that?" She stammered, the blood in her face pooling at her toes. It didn't surprise her in the least to know that he had read it, since his blatant disregard for the privacy of others was nowhere near unheard of, but she was at a loss trying to understand how he possibly could've gotten ahold of it. She had thrown it away, hadn't she? Unless he looked through the garbage, which seemed rather unusual, but this is Peter we're talking about. He probably gets his rocks off doing that, for all she knows.

Peter shrugged a shoulder indifferently, his smirk widening. "The wind picked it up and blew it my way. It's a sign, don't you think?"

Beatrice cocks her head, furrowing her eyebrows. She didn't even know why she was still standing here. She should just snatch the letter, tear it to teeny-tiny shreds, and _then_ throw it out. But who's to say Peter won't want to go through the trouble of taping the pieces together again?

She wonders where she can find the nearest acid pool. Maybe Siri actually _will _make herself useful, for once.

"No, I'm kidding," His smirk splits into a cunning grin. "In a sense. You were obviously too careless to shove this Shakespearean piece of crap down that garbage can so it wouldn't get blown away."

Oh. Yeah, maybe she should've taken that into account. Still, she didn't appreciate looking like a tool in front of a bigger tool. And she appreciated her time-consuming, nerve-wracking, anxiety-inducing work being belittled even less.

"It's not a piece of crap. Give it back," She demands, which is only a partial lie. She makes meager jumps in vain attempts to reach the fleeting letter from Peter's arm, but he only lifts his arm higher and higher, and is quicker than quick enough to evade her when she comes close. She is only able to retrieve the letter when he suddenly stops teasing her, and she doesn't even have to look back to know why, but she does, anyway.

They both watch as Marlene struts down the halls, waving at each student she recognizes. In her case, that's practically the entire Shorebridge High student body. She's one of the most well-liked and respected juniors in the school, and, thanks to her insanely good looks, one of the most sought after. Looking at Peter now, Beatrice can tell he is no exception. But Peter hardly knew Marlene, and Marlene hardly knew Peter - she only really knew about how Peter treated Beatrice in the past. That definitely wouldn't bump him up to the front of the line, in terms of the various men who wanted to take her to prom.

Beatrice laughed at the irony - he's berating her for being cheesy, while he's ogling Marlene like no other woman ever existed. "You're pathetic." She muttered, shoving past him.

Peter, momentarily dazed, watches her walk away in confusion. "What? Where are you going?"

"To class, loverboy." She says nonchalantly, making her way to the staircase as though her encounter with him hadn't fazed her at all. At least, that was what she meant to let on. Hopefully, he wouldn't tell Tobias anything about this - but, knowing Peter, she wasn't going to depend on that. Surely, if he wasn't already going to do it - which would be rather unusual - asking him not to do so would just put the idea in his head. So she said nothing.

He speed-walks to catch up with her, his mouth agape as if insulted. "Could you wait? Jesus, I didn't come to you just to taunt you."

"I'm listening." Her indifferent body language could easily say otherwise.

"This isn't the type of thing to say so... publicly. Come on, could you turn around?" Peter pleads from alongside her. Although she's still refusing his gaze, she can hear the earnest in his voice, a tone unfamiliar to her ears. It's either he's truly serious about this, or he's an impeccable actor. Beatrice was leaning towards the latter. But there had to be something going on, because Peter hardly ever came to her - on a serious note - for anything. No, forget _hardly. _He never did, ever.

"This had better be worth it." She mutters, taking a detour to the nearest unobstructed locker.

"Trust me, it will be." Peter grinned, following her. The gesture did all but alleviate her suspicions - it only heightened them. Still, she reluctantly leaned her back against the locker and loosely met his gaze, prompting him to get this, whatever it was, off his chest already.

When he was sure he finally had her attention, he began to speak. "I'd like to strike a deal with you."

Immediately, Beatrice was put off. She thinks she'd rather sacrifice her soul to the devil than make a deal with Peter, of all people, but she's having a hard time finding the difference. "No deal." She places a hand on his arm to push past him again, but he shifts his body to step in her way. She glares up at him, her blue eyes blazing in frustration.

"Hear me out. Please."

She crosses her arms and turns her head, pursing her lips. When was this fucking bell going to ring?

"So, I know you're friendly with Marlene, and I'm pretty friendly with Tobias." He began, digging his hands in his pockets.

Beatrice slowly turns her head, her left eyebrow arched in curiosity. She'd seen the two of them around before, much to her disgust, but had never really considered them friends, even though Peter seems to be the only person he hangs around.

"Define friends." She prompts him, awaiting his answer with an expectant, yet condescending, tapping foot.

Peter shrugs. "Well, he only ever really talks to _me_. I mean, you're the one that's obsessed with him, here, aren't you? Don't girls like you scrutinize every little detail about his life and, like, scribble them all in your little pink diary thing? I'm pretty sure knowing who he hangs around would be one of those details."

Beatrice's cheeks flare up, in both embarrassment and anger. "I wrote _one_ letter. I'm not obsessed. I don't gawk at him like a piece of meat." _Like you_, she means to say. But she can tell by his snort, that he knew exactly what she was referring to.

"Oh, so, we're back to the letter," Peter snickers. "What the hell _was_ that, anyway? Terrible idea. If I were Tobias, I would've burned it and danced all over the ashes. And don't get all offended by that, because you destroyed it, too."

He was _really_ trying at her patience. She should've just ignored him, should've known that he'd never change. He could get a little better, but he'd always be Peter. She was wasting her time, and the bell still hasn't rung. "You told me you weren't going to taunt me, and you sounded like you had something important to say. Could you just say it, already?" She says, her teeth clenched.

"Oh, right. Sorry about that. Back to my point," He grinned. She knew he wasn't sorry, but she stayed, anyway, against her better judgment. Even so, she'd rather get this over with now, so he won't hound her for it for the remainder of the day. One dosage of Peter is enough.

"So, we're pretty much both in the wrong, here. We're both attracted to people we barely know, and people who barely know _us_. But, at the same time, we're both familiar with each other's crushes, in one way or another. So, I was thinking, instead of never letting you live down that stupid letter - which I would totally do on a normal day - I could be your wingman. If, of course, you put in a good word for me, as well."

Although she tried to hide it, Beatrice was somewhat interested, but wary at the same time. She knows Peter - this may sound all fair and just _now_, but he's going to want some interest sooner or later. And how does she know he's actually going to side with her, after all these years he's been against her?

"Alright, Peter, what more are you going to get out of this? This sounds too good to be true."

Peter spreads his hands, as if to show he means no harm. "I'm not getting anything else out of this, besides what you're getting out of it. But since you sound skeptical, I'll skew the offer a bit in your favor. If you feel this isn't working for whatever reason, you have the right to back out at any time, and I will no longer be obligated to help you out. I won't hold it against you. I'll just have to tap into my inner casanova on my own," He sounds convincing and negotiable, but smirks at his last remark. "Of course, that also means that while you have the discretion to back out of the deal, I do not."

She was even more alarmed. Peter would never willingly give up his own rights, wants, or needs, for that of someone else's. Especially not Beatrice's. There had to be something shady going on - some sort of hidden sabotage, or manipulation, or _something_, because there was no way Peter would ever make an attempt at being somewhat.. _courteous._ Perhaps his desperation to win Marlene's heart was to blame. For her own sake, Beatrice hoped that was the case.

"And why should I side with you?" She crossed her arms again, sizing him up like a paranoid, over-bearing girlfriend finding out her bed-hopper boyfriend came home past midnight.

"Think about it," He whispers, stepping closer to her. "I'm the closest - if not only - friend he's got. No other person who did happen to know him would give you this deal with it being 51% in your favor. No strings attached. If it doesn't work, we'll never have to talk to each other again. We'll go right back to where we are now - maybe even become strangers, or something, if the situation calls for it. At least let me give you a test reel, before you decide. You won't have to do anything for me."

_Yet_, she thinks. He's going to expect something from her, sooner or later. He's not going to keep up this generous charade for long.

In the silent pause that ensues while Beatrice contemplates his offer, the bell finally rings, but neither of them move a muscle. Instead, Beatrice sighs. "Fine. Show me what you've got."

He winks at her as he steps away, inwardly celebrating. At the same time, he didn't really think he'd get this far, so he was a bit taken aback by her answer, not knowing exactly what he should do. He didn't want to make Beatrice look like a tool, or his gain in this would be all but fruitful, but, more importantly, he didn't want to make himself look like a tool by making Beatrice look like a tool. He didn't want _anyone_ looking like a tool. Still, he answered snidely, "Oh, I most certainly will, Miss Prior."

* * *

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